


The Grog Goldfish

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [7]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 13:44:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17961692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: For phia_nix, for a very specific prompt, hope I have done it justice! Have used your line for Strike as is.





	The Grog Goldfish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phia_nix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phia_nix/gifts).



> For phia_nix, for a very specific prompt, hope I have done it justice! Have used your line for Strike as is.

“Keys,” Robin said.

Strike squinted at her. “Wha’?”

“Need. Your. Keys.” She enunciated each word carefully. _Really shouldn’t have had that third glass,_ she thought hazily. _I’m supposed to be the sober one here._

Strike lurched slightly away from her, and her supporting arm slid from around his waist. He leaned on the black door to their office building for support instead and hunted through his pockets. With a triumphant gesture, he produced his cigarettes and managed to extract one from the packet.

Robin watched him try to light it. “That’s not keys.”

Strike managed to light the cigarette before he dropped the lighter. “No, ’s better ’n keys,” he said, waving an arm vaguely. Robin ducked slightly, picked the lighter up and straightened up again, grabbing for the edge of the doorframe as the world lurched a little.

She’d been to the cinema all afternoon with Ilsa while Strike and Nick watched the football, and they’d joined the men in the pub afterwards. Nick and Ilsa had headed home, but somehow Strike and Robin had stayed half the evening, chatting. She hadn’t realised quite how drunk he was until she’d attempted to steer him home. Luckily it wasn’t far, and luckily she wasn’t too drunk herself, just suffering the effects of three glasses of wine when all she’d eaten since lunch was popcorn. She knew that once she got home and ate something and had a couple of mugs of tea, she’d be fine. She just needed to get Strike home first.

 _I have keys!_ she suddenly realised delightedly. She rummaged in her bag and found them. “Here we go,” she said, ushering him aside so she could open the door. Strike showed no signs of heading inside, still smoking.

“You found ’em,” he said admiringly. “Well done.”

“No, these are mine,” Robin said. “Still need yours to get into your flat, remember?”

Strike nodded and hunted through pockets again, dropping his cigarette in the process. It fell into a puddle and went out with a sad little hiss. Strike glared at it. “Bugger,” he said, and the northern lilt he put on the word made Robin giggle.

“I know you do that, you know,” she said fondly.

Strike produced his own keys with a flourish. “Do wha’?”

“Copy my accent because you think it’s funny.”

Strike shook his head. “Do not.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Robin,” Strike said with dignity. “I don’ copy your accent cos I think i’s funny. I copy it cos I think i’s—” He screwed up his face in thought. “I jus’ like it. It’s you. It’s kinda sexy,” he added, with the air of imparting a great secret.

Robin hesitated, looking at him. He didn’t normally say such things. She tried to assess how drunk he was, but it was hard to tell when she was quite tipsy herself. Was that just the alcohol talking, or was this some kind of moment?

He looked back at her steadily, his dark eyes piercing hers. Then he grinned, and she felt her knees wobble and her face flush.

“What?” he said and Robin went redder, cursing her traitorous cheeks and his sharp eyes. “Nothing.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, and suddenly Robin uncharacteristically threw caution to the wind. “One of these days, Cormoran Strike, I want to kiss you,” she heard herself say.

There was a pause, during which Robin briefly genuinely hoped that something awful might happen to get her out of this moment. Her own words seemed to echo in the air. What had she just said? Mortification thundered in her ears as Strike stood and looked at her thoughtfully.

Then he shook his head. “Can’ kiss you,” he said firmly.

Relieved, still horrified at her own boldness, aware of a twinge of disappointment that she tried hard to ignore, Robin said faintly, “You can’t?”

Strike shook his head again. “I c'n't... Wouldn' be right,” he said. “Yer drunk, Robin. Y'know, 'd never take advantage 'f a woman, but speshly no' you. Yer too nice. Yer only sayin' it cos yer drunk.”

Robin wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. _He’s turning me down...because he thinks_ I’m _the one who’s too drunk?_ She didn’t think she had ever been so mortified in her life.

“Ah, yes, of course, no worries,” she said. “Very, er, noble of you.” Strike nodded, pleased with himself.

“Right,” said Robin briskly. _Oh, we’re going for brisk now?_ she asked herself. Every word coming out of her mouth, even her own very existence, was making her cringe until she wanted to melt into a puddle of hot embarrassment. “I’ll be off, then. I’ll, er, see you on Monday. Got your keys? Excellent. Good. See you Monday.” She was backing away as she spoke, and at the end of the sentence— _for God’s sake, stop talking!_ —she turned and almost ran down the street towards the Tube station that would take her home, where she could crawl into bed and never, ever get out again.

Strike gazed after her, puzzled, then turned and made his way into the building, the heavy door slamming behind him. He vaguely wondered if a small whisky over Match of the Day was in order.

...

Robin lingered for several minutes on the landing outside the office on Monday morning, feeling slightly sick. She hadn’t worked out what, if anything, to say. _What’s the protocol in the office when you’ve told your drunk boss you want to kiss him and he’s turned you down?_ she had wondered all weekend, without reaching an answer.

Finally she opened the door and went in. “Morning!” she called brightly, a little squeakily— _oh, God_ —and heard Strike’s rumbled answer. She went to put the kettle on, and went through her normal routines, bag by her desk, coat on the peg. She turned back and jumped a little at the sight of Strike stood in the doorway.

“Good weekend?” he asked her, moving to the kitchenette. Robin scurried round the other side of her desk to her chair.

“Er, yes, thanks,” she stammered. Strike selected two mugs and put tea bags in them while Robin settled herself in front of her computer, gazing at the blank screen as it slowly warmed up. _Hurry up._ She needed something to do.

Strike swung to face her suddenly. “About Saturday night—” he said.

 _Here we go._ “Yes?” Robin asked faintly, a cold sweat breaking out between her shoulder blades.

“Er, is everything okay?”

Robin resisted the urge to close her eyes and slide quietly under her desk. “Yes, why?”

Strike looked embarrassed. “I didn’t...say or do anything silly?”

Robin glanced up at him, cautiously hopeful. “Er, no?”

He nodded. “I, er, don’t remember much after leaving the pub,” he confessed, flushing a little. “I seem to have had a couple of glasses of whisky in front of the telly after I got back. I, er, vaguely remember you making sure I had my keys, so thank you.”

_Oh, thank God. Thank God._

Robin pinned a smile on her face, hoping it looked fond and indulgent, rather than the weird grimace it felt like. “No, no, all good,” she said. “You were fine.”

Strike nodded. “Good,” he said. “Didn’t mean to get that drunk, sorry, not sure how it happened. I got hardly any sleep on Friday night, tailing Mr Money. That must be it.”

“Must be.”

“You sure I didn’t say anything out of order?”

“Quite sure.”

“Only you looked a bit...worried.”

“No, no, just...got lots on. Thinking about how I’m going to juggle everything this week.”

“Okay, well, I’ll get these teas made and we’ll go through the diary.”

“Great.”

Strike turned back to the kettle, and Robin drew a long, shaky breath and let it out slowly.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Knee is on the mend so the pace of posting will slow down now I can get on with all the stuff I should have been doing this week, sorry! :))


End file.
